My expectations for life after marriage were probably fairly typical for a young newlywed. I’d found the man of my dreams. I figured we’d get married, find a place to live, and buy ourselves some major appliances. I’d work for a few years, we’d have some babies, and all would live happily ever after. It sounded like a reasonable plan, one which seemed to be moving ahead quite nicely.
Until my body betrayed me.
I’d heard about this thing called infertility and of women who experienced it, but I wasn’t about to accept that I was one of “those women.” Month after month I waited with hope, only to be disappointed time and again. I prayed. I sought medical treatment. I slammed doors and ate way too many Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
I watched as friends welcomed children into their homes while my arms remained empty. The ache of longing grew in my heart, ripping it wide open. I wasn’t sure healing was possible.
Jesus wept.
Two short words penned by the disciple Jesus loved capture Christ’s response to the grief and heartache of this world. Some speculate that the source of the Savior’s tears was the depth of his love for his friend Lazarus. Others believe Christ wept because those standing at the mouth of the tomb couldn’t understand or believe in the possibility of resurrection.
My pastor suggested Christ’s tears were ones of anger—anger at the consequences of sin and the grief caused by it. What grieves me breaks the heart of Jesus. And the only solution to sin and grief was the compassionate heart of the Father sending his beloved Son, that by his stripes we could be healed.
Healing for my heart began through the gift of adoption. God gave me two beautiful children, and I can’t imagine life without either of them. Since they’ve come into my life, however, God has shown me that he was at work doing so much more than merely binding up my wounds.
Several years ago I opened an email attachment from a missionary friend, one who had served in the Philippines for a number of years. I’ll admit it; I’m not always terribly faithful about reading correspondence from missionaries—especially when I’ve got a significant backlog in my email inbox. Which is most of the time.
For some reason I not only read my friend’s message, but was also moved to click on the attachment. I couldn’t believe the opening words:
When we were missionaries in the Philippines a friend from my hometown came to adopt a boy from an orphanage in the southern part of the Philippines. I remember thinking of the incredible significance of his adoption. . . . He received a new name and new hope. . . . How much more is the change for those who are adopted by God the Father?
My story. My son’s story. My friend had used these to illustrate the doctrine of adoption in training materials he was developing, words written to equip missionaries and pastors to spread the gospel. My broken heart story became woven into a much larger story; the story of God’s heart for the entire world.
When Jesus healed my heart, he didn’t make it as good as new. He changed it. I believe the heart once broken and healed by the Savior’s hand becomes tenderer. It feels pain and remembers; much like a limb once shattered and restored senses a dull ache with a change in the weather. Fissures and cracks of brokenness remain in my heart and, I’m sure, in the lives of my children and their birth parents; reminders of emptiness and loss. Our hearts bear scars, as do the hands of the wounded healer.
I also wonder if the heart once broken and made tender doesn’t also change in shape. Had my starry-eyed newlywed dreams been fulfilled, I wonder if I would have learned to care as deeply about the work of adoption and the sacredness of human life. Because of the experience I’d had in traveling there to adopt my son, my heart became open to sponsoring a child from the Philippines through Compassion International.
Christ assured his followers that, in this world, we would have trouble. Our hearts will most certainly be broken. But as he brings healing, he enables them to grow and become more like his.
Joining with Bonnie Gray and others, telling stories of broken hearts and healing:
